Passing
by Kristofer Collins
Several days after my father's funeral, he called me up and invited me out for a drink.
Dad, I said not sure that I was really hearing his voice.
What, he said. Let's get a drink.
I met him at The Little Corner Tavern. He was at a small table at the back of the room. He was chatting with a young waitress who was laughing at whatever he was saying. I pulled out a chair and sat down. The waitress, still giggling, took my order and left us.
What was that about, I asked.
She's a looker, he said watching her move around behind the bar.
Well, she sure seemed to like you anyway, I said. What did you say to her?
Nothing. It was just talk.
Oh, I said.
So how are you, my father asked.
Okay, I said. I'm alright.
You look a little thin, he said with a grin. My father had needled me about being too skinny for as long as I could remember. It's not healthy, he said.
I was looking at a Heinz ketchup bottle that sat between us on the tabletop. There was also a shaker of pepper, but no salt shaker. There was an anthill of salt on the sticky table and I wondered where the shaker had gone.
The waitress returned with our drinks; a beer for my father and a scotch and water for me.
Anything else for you, she asked looking at my father.
I think we're okay, he said and gave her a smile. She walked away without looking at me.
A little early for scotch. For me anyway, he said taking a pull on his beer. It was early afternoon.
Dad, why are we here, I asked.
I haven't had one of these in a long time, he said wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Or maybe it just feels like a long time. I don't know. The things you miss, he said grinning again.
I wanted to tell you something, he said.
What, I said. I was turning the glass of scotch around and around. It left wet circles as I moved it back and forth.
Always right to business, my father said. Can't we just sit a minute and enjoy our drinks.
I looked at the glass in front of me. The rim was chipped. I tried to remember what scotch tasted like, but I couldn't recall. I didn't want anything to drink. I wanted to leave.
So what are you going to do now, he asked.
About what, I said.
Are you going back to work, he asked.
I guess, yeah. What else would I do? I worked as a manager at a video store in a nearby strip mall. I didn't watch movies all that much and didn't particularly enjoy the work. But it was a job and you're supposed to have a job. I hadn't been in since he had gotten sick.
I don't know, he said. I'm worried about you.
I'm fine, I said.
He looked at me then. He looked at me hard and I looked away. I scanned the bar for the restrooms.
I'll be right back, I said and got up.
Do you have a couple of dollars, my father asked. I handed him some crumpled singles then walked off down a narrow corridor.
I ran cold water over my hands and waited a few minutes. I didn't want to go back to the table. I didn't want him looking at me like that.
When I finally went back I found an open pack of Camels on the table and my father with a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. He had smoked it almost down to the filter.
Dad, I said.
It's okay, he said. What's a bottle of beer without a smoke to go with it, he said matter-of-factly.
I remembered his small, ashen body lying in the coffin. Someone had put rouge on his cheeks and I told them to take it off.
My father was saying something. I watched his hands as he stubbed out what was left of the cigarette in the black ashtray. He had hit me once when I was little. I don't remember what I had done, probably something little kids are always doing, and he had grabbed me and smacked me. I think I was more surprised at being grabbed like that than about getting hit. Anyway, it hadn't hurt too much. But my father kept apologizing and he made me promise not to tell my mother. He was sorry. He would make it up to me. I never did tell my mother. I don't know why but it wasn't a big deal to me.
I don't know what made me think of that.
My father had finished talking. I don't know what he said. I didn't ask him to repeat it.
I just wanted to tell you, he said.
Only a handful of his friends attended the funeral; mostly drinking buddies, no one who knew him very well. He had no other family and my mother had refused to come. They had divorced when I was in high school, but neither had remarried.
You haven't touched your drink, he said pointing at the glass in front of me. I picked it up then put it down. I couldn't drink it.
I think you should get some sleep. You look tired, he said.
That's probably a good idea, I said. I felt so tired.
I paid for the drinks and left a tip for the waitress.
You can do better than that, my father said.
I threw down another dollar and reached for my glass. I put it down again without taking a drink.
Outside the bar the day was bright and clear. There wasn't much traffic. There were birds somewhere.
My father was saying something to me. I could hear him.
I'm glad you came, he said.
Good, I said.
Well, try to get some sleep, he said.
When I got back to my apartment I wasn't tired anymore. I sat on the couch for awhile and didn't do much of anything. I thought about turning the television on but decided not to. The phone rang and I let the machine get it. It was someone from the video store asking if I'd be in tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll quit my job, I thought. And I wondered if I really would. I stared at the blank television screen.
A fresh wave of sleepiness washed over me and my eyes began to close. I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. I rolled it into a ball and, stretching out on the couch, lay my head down on it as though it was a pillow. I slept the rest of the afternoon, breathing in what I can only guess was the remains of my father's last cigarette; the struggling ghost of it trapped in the countless tiny fibers of the shirt. But I couldn't be sure. It may have been something else entirely.
Kristofer Collins is the editor of The Pittsburgh Book Review.
by Kristofer Collins
Several days after my father's funeral, he called me up and invited me out for a drink.
Dad, I said not sure that I was really hearing his voice.
What, he said. Let's get a drink.
I met him at The Little Corner Tavern. He was at a small table at the back of the room. He was chatting with a young waitress who was laughing at whatever he was saying. I pulled out a chair and sat down. The waitress, still giggling, took my order and left us.
What was that about, I asked.
She's a looker, he said watching her move around behind the bar.
Well, she sure seemed to like you anyway, I said. What did you say to her?
Nothing. It was just talk.
Oh, I said.
So how are you, my father asked.
Okay, I said. I'm alright.
You look a little thin, he said with a grin. My father had needled me about being too skinny for as long as I could remember. It's not healthy, he said.
I was looking at a Heinz ketchup bottle that sat between us on the tabletop. There was also a shaker of pepper, but no salt shaker. There was an anthill of salt on the sticky table and I wondered where the shaker had gone.
The waitress returned with our drinks; a beer for my father and a scotch and water for me.
Anything else for you, she asked looking at my father.
I think we're okay, he said and gave her a smile. She walked away without looking at me.
A little early for scotch. For me anyway, he said taking a pull on his beer. It was early afternoon.
Dad, why are we here, I asked.
I haven't had one of these in a long time, he said wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Or maybe it just feels like a long time. I don't know. The things you miss, he said grinning again.
I wanted to tell you something, he said.
What, I said. I was turning the glass of scotch around and around. It left wet circles as I moved it back and forth.
Always right to business, my father said. Can't we just sit a minute and enjoy our drinks.
I looked at the glass in front of me. The rim was chipped. I tried to remember what scotch tasted like, but I couldn't recall. I didn't want anything to drink. I wanted to leave.
So what are you going to do now, he asked.
About what, I said.
Are you going back to work, he asked.
I guess, yeah. What else would I do? I worked as a manager at a video store in a nearby strip mall. I didn't watch movies all that much and didn't particularly enjoy the work. But it was a job and you're supposed to have a job. I hadn't been in since he had gotten sick.
I don't know, he said. I'm worried about you.
I'm fine, I said.
He looked at me then. He looked at me hard and I looked away. I scanned the bar for the restrooms.
I'll be right back, I said and got up.
Do you have a couple of dollars, my father asked. I handed him some crumpled singles then walked off down a narrow corridor.
I ran cold water over my hands and waited a few minutes. I didn't want to go back to the table. I didn't want him looking at me like that.
When I finally went back I found an open pack of Camels on the table and my father with a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. He had smoked it almost down to the filter.
Dad, I said.
It's okay, he said. What's a bottle of beer without a smoke to go with it, he said matter-of-factly.
I remembered his small, ashen body lying in the coffin. Someone had put rouge on his cheeks and I told them to take it off.
My father was saying something. I watched his hands as he stubbed out what was left of the cigarette in the black ashtray. He had hit me once when I was little. I don't remember what I had done, probably something little kids are always doing, and he had grabbed me and smacked me. I think I was more surprised at being grabbed like that than about getting hit. Anyway, it hadn't hurt too much. But my father kept apologizing and he made me promise not to tell my mother. He was sorry. He would make it up to me. I never did tell my mother. I don't know why but it wasn't a big deal to me.
I don't know what made me think of that.
My father had finished talking. I don't know what he said. I didn't ask him to repeat it.
I just wanted to tell you, he said.
Only a handful of his friends attended the funeral; mostly drinking buddies, no one who knew him very well. He had no other family and my mother had refused to come. They had divorced when I was in high school, but neither had remarried.
You haven't touched your drink, he said pointing at the glass in front of me. I picked it up then put it down. I couldn't drink it.
I think you should get some sleep. You look tired, he said.
That's probably a good idea, I said. I felt so tired.
I paid for the drinks and left a tip for the waitress.
You can do better than that, my father said.
I threw down another dollar and reached for my glass. I put it down again without taking a drink.
Outside the bar the day was bright and clear. There wasn't much traffic. There were birds somewhere.
My father was saying something to me. I could hear him.
I'm glad you came, he said.
Good, I said.
Well, try to get some sleep, he said.
When I got back to my apartment I wasn't tired anymore. I sat on the couch for awhile and didn't do much of anything. I thought about turning the television on but decided not to. The phone rang and I let the machine get it. It was someone from the video store asking if I'd be in tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll quit my job, I thought. And I wondered if I really would. I stared at the blank television screen.
A fresh wave of sleepiness washed over me and my eyes began to close. I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. I rolled it into a ball and, stretching out on the couch, lay my head down on it as though it was a pillow. I slept the rest of the afternoon, breathing in what I can only guess was the remains of my father's last cigarette; the struggling ghost of it trapped in the countless tiny fibers of the shirt. But I couldn't be sure. It may have been something else entirely.
Kristofer Collins is the editor of The Pittsburgh Book Review.
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